The Perfect Princess (8 page)

“For the love of God!” He sounded thoroughly annoyed.

“What did you think I was going to do to you?” He stared hard at her, then shook his head. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it when you went into the bushes to relieve yourself. Have you no sense, woman? Hold still till I get these thorns out of your clothes.”

He thrust his pistol into the waistband of his trousers, set down the bottle of brandy, and began to detach the prickly thorns from her gown. She sat there in miserable silence, with her knees drawn up to her chin, as the rain cascaded over her like a river in spate. Was it only yesterday, she wondered, that she’d longed for a little adventure? If this was the Deity’s idea of a joke, she was not amused. In fact, she was seething at the injustice of it all. Not that she blamed the Deity. No. Richard Maitland, and he alone, was responsible for all her troubles.

Having released her from the brambles, he straightened and gave her another searching look. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Am I all right?” she said pleasantly. “I wonder you should ask. What could be more agreeable than to be held at gunpoint, abducted, and tossed into a thicket of brambles in a downpour of rain in the middle of nowhere?”

“You fell into the brambles,” he said. He stooped to pick up the bottle of brandy.

Was that a smile on his face? Her temper ignited and before she could think of the wisdom of what she was doing, she lunged for his booted foot, gave it a hard yank, and sent
him
, his blanket, and his brandy bottle flying into the bushes. Before the first oath was out of his mouth, she was on her feet and stumbling down the muddy track toward the boat. A push from behind sent her sprawling, and her momentum carried her forward. But she wasn’t done yet. She was still clutching her stupid shoe, so she lay there in a heap, awaiting her moment. It came when he went down on one knee, and grasping her shoulders, raised her to her feet.

“Will you be sensible—”

She aimed for his face. As he threw up his arm to ward off the blow, his elbow inadvertently connected with her jaw.

“Bloody hell!” he muttered, and caught her as she began to sink to her knees.

The path led to a one-room derelict cottage behind a dry stone wall. By the time Richard had carried her up the steep incline and deposited her on the bed, he was gasping for breath. Two weeks in Newgate hadn’t improved his health, nor had carrying the Amazon from one end of the prison to the other and now up the hill to the cottage. The wound in his chest was beginning to throb.

As he stepped back from the bed, he took a good look at her. The perfect princess, the newspapers called her. Well, the perfect princess looked as though she’d been caught in a mangle.

How had it come to this? It was an accident, of course, though he didn’t expect her to believe it. He had never struck a woman in his life. He didn’t want to hurt her or terrorize her. He just wanted her to behave herself until they could go their separate ways.

He reached for the threadbare blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over her to absorb some of the damp, then he went to a cupboard in the fireplace wall. When he discovered that everything was just as he’d hoped, he said a silent thank you to Hugh Templar for providing everything a man on the run could possibly want—a fresh set of clothes, a fat purse of money, a medicine box, dressings for his wound, a razor, food, and a bottle of brandy to replace the bottle he’d lost.

There were two tin mugs on a table in front of the fireplace. He half filled one, took a healthy gulp from it, then crossed to the bed. He held her head as he dribbled
brandy between her lips. Thankfully, she swallowed it without a protest. When her eyelashes fluttered and she stirred, he breathed a sigh of relief. She was going to be all right.

Which was more than he could say for himself. His head was swimming; his muscles ached. If he didn’t get a grip on himself, he would give in to his fatigue, and with this girl, that could be a fatal mistake.

He thought about changing the dressing on his wound, but he decided that this wasn’t the time, not when the girl was coming round. He’d wait till Harper got back. Surely two grown men could handle her, two grown men who, in Harper’s words, were the best His Majesty’s Secret Service had to offer?

He shook his head. Lady Rosamund was no ordinary woman. Most females would have been reduced to a quivering jelly by now. This one had pluck. Even when she was frightened, she kept her wits about her. She’d braved rioters and gunfire outside Newgate in her determination to get away from him, and only a few moments ago she’d attacked him with nothing more than a shoe. If she were a man, and he were still chief of staff at Special Branch, he’d offer her a job on the spot.

The thought made him smile, but the smile faded as his eyes roamed over her. The thin blanket clung to her wet form, emphasizing her lush curves. Though she was tall, she was perfectly proportioned. He was, after all, a male, and had noticed that much about her when she first entered the Felons’ Quadrangle. Now that he had the leisure to examine her closely, he found other things to admire: her abundant dark hair; the finely arched brows and delicate features; the softly molded mouth.

When he realized he was staring at her mouth, he forced himself to draw in a slow, deep breath. This woman was dangerous! He shouldn’t be softening toward her or lusting after her! He had too much to lose.

He had to make her fear him. It was the only way to get her to behave herself.

All the same, it didn’t sit well with him. It went against everything he’d ever learned at his mother’s knee. Females were the weaker sex. A man who took advantage of that fact was nothing but a brute. Besides, this female was innocent. Her one mistake was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And that kind of thinking could get him sent back to Newgate and the gallows.

He had to make her fear him
.

On that sobering thought, he stripped out of his wet clothes, dried himself off with a towel, then quickly donned the fresh set of clothes Hugh had left for him.

When she came to herself, her jaw throbbed and her mouth burned with the taste of brandy. She was lying in a bed, but she knew it wasn’t her own bed. The mattress was lumpy. Straw, she thought, then
Maitland
, and it all came back to her. She hauled herself up.

He was going through a cupboard on one side of a blackened stone hearth. Her gaze moved to take in other things, a small table and two wooden chairs; blackened pots and pans on a shelf; small windows on either side of the door. It was a one-room cottage with an abandoned air about it.

When she pushed back the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed, the bed creaked. Maitland straightened and walked toward her. He was spotless. She couldn’t believe it. The last time she’d seen him, he was covered in mud. He’d washed himself and changed his clothes. But that wasn’t all. He looked quite handsome. His light-brown hair had obviously been combed. And the sinister cast of his features was no longer there. And then it came to her. He had shaved.

His immaculate appearance made her all the more aware of her own bedraggled state. Mud squished between her toes and her rain-soaked garments hugged her in a soggy embrace.

She got to her feet, and eyed him warily as he came up to her. Seeing her expression, he nodded. “Don’t make me use force to restrain you,” he said.

His narrow-eyed gaze was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to look away, but her pride wouldn’t allow it. There was nothing better this man would like than to see her cringe.

“I know your capacity for violence,” she said, and touched a hand to her sore jaw.

He muttered something under his breath, combed his fingers through his hair, and took a step back. Finally, he said, “Listen to me, Lady Rosamund. If you behave yourself, no harm will come to you. Harper will be back soon with horses, then we’re going to take you to a coaching inn and Harper and I will be on our way. You’ll be back with your family before you know it.”

Things were beginning to take shape in her mind. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to find this out-of-the-way cottage and supply it with whatever Maitland needed to make good his escape. But the cottage was so run-down, it was obvious this was not his ultimate destination, just a stop on the way to rest up and make sure the coast was clear before going on.

He said that Harper would soon be back with horses, then they’d take her to a coaching inn. If only she could believe him!

“I’ve looked out a change of clothes for you,” he said. He went back to the cupboard and returned with a bundle of dry garments. “They’re Harper’s clothes, but they’ll do until your own clothes dry out. And boots. Harper’s boots. His feet are quite small.”

Chills were breaking out all over her, and she would have gladly exchanged her wet garments for a suit of
horsehair, but she didn’t like the idea of stealing Harper’s clothes. She feared him almost as much as she feared Maitland.

There was more to it than that, though.

When she didn’t respond, his voice changed, became harder. “Five minutes,” he said. “I’ll give you five minutes, and if you’re not dressed by the time I come back, I’ll put you into these clothes myself. Oh, and don’t think of escape. I’ll be standing right outside that door. Did you hear me, Lady Rosamund? You’d better be in these dry clothes by the time I come through that door.”

“I won’t be,” she said.

Frustration roared through him. “You’re soaked to the skin! Your teeth are chattering! I’m not having you come down with a lung fever. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. It’s you who doesn’t understand.”

“Then enlighten me, ma’am, if you would be so kind.”

She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “I can’t undress myself without my abigail.”

“Without your—”

“Lady’s maid.”

There was a silence. Two spots of color bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes dared him to laugh at her. His brow puckered, then comprehension slowly dawned. She couldn’t undress herself because, as he remembered, the buttons on her gown marched in a straight line from the back of her neck to the base of her spine.

“I’ll be your lady’s maid,” he said.

She went rigid. “That won’t be necessary. If you’d just give me a knife, or a pair of scissors, I’ll cut my way out of my gown.”

“A knife or a pair of scissors?”

She nodded.

“Do I look crazy? Turn around. I’ll act as your lady’s maid.”

Her eyes went wide, and that got his temper going. He knew exactly what was going through her mind. “Lord
have mercy! You don’t think I’m going to have my wicked way with you? If you could only see yourself in a mirror, you would know how ludicrous that idea is.” Then again, “Now turn around.”

Her delicate nostrils flared, but she obeyed him, all the same.

The buttons were tiny and his fingers seemed to be all thumbs. At this rate, they’d be standing here till doomsday. He grasped the edges of her gown and yanked. Buttons spilled over the stone floor and rattled into corners and under the bed. The back of her gown gaped, revealing creamy white shoulders and her lacy stays. Her waist was surprisingly tiny, no more than a man’s hand-span. His hand-span.

Where did that insane thought come from? “Five minutes,” he ground out, then left her.

She waited till the door closed, then she yanked off her frock, then her stockings, and used the blanket to dry herself off.

“If you could only see yourself in a mirror,” she said, mimicking his tone of voice exactly. Well, if she was not mistaken, he was no Romeo. He couldn’t even unbutton a woman’s gown. It didn’t surprise her. What woman in her right mind would have Richard Maitland? Not this one. Not even his mistress wanted him. Poor Lucy Rider.

If she could only see herself in a mirror! What did he expect after all she’d been through? When she was all prettied up she was, so her father said, a raving beauty. Of course, her father was prejudiced, but even allowing for exaggeration, she wasn’t the hag Richard Maitland made her out to be.

She didn’t know why his barb stung. So he didn’t fancy her. So much the better. It was one thing less to worry about.